Date: Fri, 17 Nov 1995 15:34:48 -0600 Reply-To: Julia Kosatka Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Julia Kosatka Subject: Daybreak, 2/4 ADULT liquid splashed into his open mouth and Methos winced, waiting for the inevitable. Duncan swallowed, his eyes widened, he gasped, then coughed. It took him several seconds to recover, wheezing slightly as the liquor burned its way down his esophagus into his stomach. Finally he managed to take a complete breath again. "Where the hell did you get Romulan Ale?" Methos smiled. "I have my sources. You do learn a few things after a couple of millennia." More carefully this time, Duncan took another shot, savoring it this time, rolling it over his tongue. Methos closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like to taste him now... he shook the vision from his head. He couldn't stay, not with what he wanted so tantalizingly at hand, yet so out of reach. Sitting back on the floor, he stretched his legs out and leaned against the rough frame of the couch-bed that was almost the only furniture in the cabin, soaking up the fire's warmth. He hadn't realized how cold he was until the heat touched his skin. He felt as if the cold went all the way inside, isolating him, cutting him off. Over the centuries he'd gotten used to this feeling. It was an old, though not cherished, companion. For the past few years he'd dared to hope that it was gone, never to return. A futile hope. Damn, he shouldn't have had so much of that ale, it was making him maudlin. Of course, he'd expected to be alone. That made a big difference. It was okay to be overemotional when one was alone. He let his eyes go unfocused as he stared at the flames, trying to hypnotize himself into calm. He felt the futon frame shift as Duncan sat down on it, heard the other man sigh, heard the tiny creak of muscles lengthened to full extension as he stretched. His depression deepened as he realized Duncan wouldn't even sit next to him. With him up there, they weren't touching, not even a chance brush of hand or shoulder. A half- remembered stanza of a poem sprang to mind, and thoughtlessly he whispered it more to himself than to Duncan. "`Desires, and adorations, winged persuasions and veiled destinies, splendours and glooms, and glimmering incarnations of hope and fear, and twilight phantasies; and Sorrow, with her family of Sighs.'" There was silence for a moment, then a slight chuckle from above him. "Shelley, Methos? You never struck me as the Shelley type. I often wondered if he figured out about us. I knew him, and he never asked, but there's a poem I've speculated about. `I am the daughter of Earth and Water, and the nursling of the Sky. I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.' Later, there's a line `I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, and out of the caverns of rain, like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again.' Sounds rather suspicious, don't you think?" Methos couldn't think of a reply, so he let the crackle of the fire speak for him. After a moment, Duncan spoke again. "`He sought, for his lost heart was tender, things to love, but found them not, alas! Nor was there aught the world contains, the which he could approve. Through the unheeding many he did move, a splendour among shadows..." Fingers slid down his neck, beneath his jaw, urging him to look up. He did, and found Duncan looking down at him, his eyes shadowed, his mouth bare inches away. Duncan closed the gap between them, his full lips soft and open. They'd kissed many times before, but never before like this. Always before it had been an aside, an accompaniment. Not now. This was for him alone. He tipped his head back, taking the upside-down kiss, no awkwardness in it, no strain, just the fully accepting kiss of a friend, and a lover. Sometime later, it ended, as softly as it had begun. He opened his eyes, taking in the dark spirals that curtained Duncan's face, taking in the pleasure in his eyes, the tempo of his breathing. An invisible blade unsheathed itself from his heart, and he felt the ecstatic pain of healing. He reached up and touched the lips that had begun that convalescence. "`Dreams and the light imaginings of men, and all that faith creates, or love desires, terrible, strange, sublime, and beauteous shapes.'" Duncan closed his eyes. "Methos, don't leave me," he whispered as he reached down and framed Methos' face in his palms, brushing his mouth across lips, then eyelids. "Would you... come up here?" he asked, with curious uncertainty. "I have a better idea, you come down here." Duncan eyed the irregular stone flooring dubiously, then stood up, tugging the light futon off its frame as he did. Methos understood instantly, and shoved the frame out of the way, making room to spread it on the floor. There was an odd sense of commitment in laying the mattress out, unspoken, but powerfully present. Finished, Duncan knelt, staring into the fire for a moment. "What is it about thunderstorms?" he asked after a moment. "What do you mean?" He looked up, smiling. "For some odd reason, my firsts always seem to involve rain." "That's very Freudian of you." Duncan chuckled. "I know." He reached for the laces on his shirt and they crumbled in his fingers, victim of the lightning. He looked at the ashes on his skin and shook his head. "Damned lucky." "Thank God, if you believe in one," Methos said, reaching over to brush away the ashes. Duncan caught his hand, and tugged him closer, leaning in for another kiss. This time was less tender, more clearly sexual, and he responded to the invitation like a starving man at a banquet. He sensed no hesitation in Duncan's response, no pulling away. Desire shot through him, spreading like wildfire. He threaded his fingers into Duncan's hair, feeling the weight of it, still damp from the rain. He tasted the generosity of his mouth; the subtle, stealing touch of his tongue; the moistness, the pressure, the hint of Romulan ale that lingered... he shuddered, surrendering to the moment. When Duncan finally lifted his mouth, Methos was on his back. Oddly, he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten there. Duncan was half- lying above him, leaning on one hand. The wet fabric of his shirt clung to the solid curves of biceps and forearm, and drooped off his shoulder, the open vee revealing a wide swath of gleaming olive-gold skin dusted with dark hair. Methos swallowed, trying to summon saliva to a suddenly dry mouth. Duncan was studying him, eyes sleepy-lidded and feline in the fireglow. After a moment he lifted his free hand and traced a finger down the tendon on the side of Methos' throat, followed it down to his collar-bone, then to the fastening of his tunic. Methos didn't follow Valhallan fashions, he knew he looked all knees and elbows in a kilt. The closure-strip opened easily, and Duncan's fingers slipped beneath the fabric, lightly, almost hesitantly, stroking, following the slight indentation where muscles meshed down the center of his body, stopping at the waistband of his trousers, which as usual had ridden down a little on his narrow hips. Methos found himself breathing shallowly, almost panting. He stared at the broad, dark hand resting on his belly, and resisted the urge to grab it and push it lower. Duncan had to do this his own way, in his own time. But God, how he wanted to help! After a moment the hand retraced its route back up, this time moving sideways to skim lightly across a nipple. Methos gasped, feeling the lash of pleasure tighten already taut flesh and send blood rushing into already gorged capillaries. A little sound escaped him, and Duncan looked up, a cheshire grin curving his mouth. "You're easy," he said, his voice husky. "Under certain circumstances," Methos agreed. "Including these?" Duncan asked, his fingers moving downward again. "Especially these," he sighed as a warm palm cupped him. He tried not to move, but couldn't resist a push into that hand, like a cat butting against the hand that petted it. Duncan didn't seem to mind. His fingers tightened gently, only a scant millimeter of cloth separating skin from skin. Methos moaned, shivering with pleasure. Duncan began to stroke him in a firm, but irregular rhythm that tantalized without bringing him too close to the edge. "Interesting," Duncan said. "What?" Methos managed, somehow, to ask. "It seems rather-- familiar." Methos laughed. "Yes, it does, doesn't it?" "This should be natural, then." "It is, believe me. And you are." "I am what?" "A natural... God, that feels good!" He couldn't help moving now, just a little, in response to the incredible pleasure of the caress. He'd wanted this for so long that even being touched through clothing was almost more than he could bear. He ached to touch Duncan in return, but was afraid to push it, afraid he might back off. He clenched his fists against the need to reach out. "Methos, it's okay, you can touch me too." There. He'd done it again. Sometimes they knew each other just a little too well, it was disconcerting, almost like mind-reading. He reached down and covered Duncan's hand with his own, stilling the motion. After a moment he relaxed with a sigh. "There, now maybe I can think." Duncan chuckled. "Think? Are we supposed to be thinking?" Methos grinned. "Good point." He reached up and let his hand slide into the gap where Duncan's shirt opened, fanning his fingers over the warm, satin curve of muscle, feeling the slight, pebbled rise of a nipple beneath his palm. A heartbeat ticked against his fingers, steady, but fast. His other hand found the firm arch of a thigh and rested there, feeling Duncan's warmth even through the cold, wet wool of his kilt. His own clothing, made of synthetics, was already almost dry, but Duncan's natural-fiber garments were still soaking wet. He rolled to his knees and reached to unfasten the penannular which held the kilt at his shoulder. "Let's get you out of these wet things," he said, ulterior motives transparent in his face. Duncan lifted an expressive eyebrow. "Before I catch cold?" Methos smiled minutely. "Something like that." "Let's do this right, then." Duncan sat down and unlaced his moccasins, tossing them aside, then reached over and slid Methos' tunic off. Methos helped Duncan divest himself of his shirt. Methos' shoes and trousers came next, then Duncan unpleated his kilt and draped it across the futon frame to dry. Methos watched him with held breath, still as affected by his beauty as he had been the first time he'd seen it. Of Earth-born artists, only DaVinci, Michelangelo, or Taylor could possibly do him justice; of non-humans... perhaps T'arat of Vulcan or Daim of Borsz, but few others. The firelight sheened every convex and shadowed every concave, making him even more sculptural than usual. He resumed his former place on the futon, kneeling, his gaze wary but curious at the same time. Methos knew his own excitement was evident, and there was a suggestion of arousal in Duncan's body, though as yet it was not complete. Knowing the mood had been slightly disturbed by taking the time to undress, he picked up the wineskin and swallowed a mouthful, then offered the skin to Duncan. He took it, drank some, then a mischievous smile twitched his lips and he took a second mouthful. Moments later he pounced, agile as a cat, tipping Methos onto his back. "Duncan! What the hell?" he protested, attempting to sit back up only to be pinned in place. "What are you... God!" He didn't have to wonder any longer. He collapsed back with a moan of pleasure as liquid fire surrounded him. He was stunned. Completely, and utterly stunned. Never, not in a million years, would he have guessed Duncan's first move would be this bold; though in truth, perhaps he should have. The man did nothing by half-measures. He felt the touch of lips and tongue, the stinging cold-heat of the ale as it swirled around his straining flesh. A hand cupped him, stroking; another rested lightly on his thigh. He felt teeth, hard and sharp, and careful as they skimmed taut surfaces. A tightening, then all that surrounded him was human, not chemical warmth. Duncan must have swallowed the ale. Thinking of him swallowing made him crazy. Every muscle in his body went rigid with the effort of control. He reached down and stroked the satin thickness of Duncan's hair, following each movement, wanting to kiss him, wanting so much more. He tangled his fingers in the strands and tugged upward. "Don't, it's too soon for that." With apparent reluctance, Duncan released him, and looked up. "You're sure?" Methos nodded. "Did I... was that okay?" Duncan asked. "More than okay, but you knew that already so stop fishing for compliments." "I wasn't!" Duncan protested, trying out his choirboy look. Methos laughed. "God, I really am robbing the cradle!" He pulled Duncan to him and kissed him, reveling in the feel of him, all solid, heavy warmth and silk. The embrace deepened, the only sound in the room the crackle and hiss of the fire, and the soft, moist sounds of their kiss. Holding him, their bodies entwined, he felt the hard fullness of Duncan's sex against his thigh, and fought down a shout of victory. *** Duncan slid a hand down Methos' back, to the scant curve of buttock and pulled him close, firm against firm, hard against hard, like against like. It was simultaneously arousing, disconcerting, and so, so familiar. He'd never before admitted to himself how much he had enjoyed touching Methos in their many sessions with Guinan. He'd always assumed that his arousal had been mostly due to her presence, yet she wasn't here, and he was as fiercely hard as he'd ever been. He thought of feeling Methos yield to him as Guinan did sent a streak of anticipation went through him. He wanted him. He couldn't imagine ever feeling this with anyone else, this was something that had grown over their years together, in the bond they shared through their daughter. He loved Methos in every way it was possible to love. He'd just never realized it before. He drew back a little, gasping for breath, and looked at his partner's face. Any doubts he'd harbored slipped away at that. He could not see the utter trust there and have any doubt left. He reached out, cupping a hand behind his head, feeling the brush of short- cropped hair against his palm. He lowered his head, kissing a path along the side of his throat, down to the hollow at his collarbone, and shivered, remembering. "Thank God I didn't take you up on your offer," he said, stroking a finger lightly across the base of his throat. "What offer was that?" Methos asked, looking puzzled. "The first one you ever made me, the one in Paris. When you offered me your head." Methos' eyes went distant for a moment, then he nodded. "Everything I have now is because of that moment. Had you not refused me--" he shook his head. "It would have been such a waste." "And I would have killed another friend. That was always the worst thing. Watching people I'd once loved, or could love, become enemies." "I know, believe me, I know." They shared a moment of silence for those that had gone that way, then Duncan lowered his head again, and brushed his lips across Methos' mouth. As the kiss deepened, Methos turned onto his side, taking Duncan with him, and he shifted a thigh over Duncan's hip, so their bodies could fit more closely together. Like against like, Duncan thought again, surprised that it felt so right. It was very different, but no less sensual. His pulse picked up speed, his breathing shallowed. He trailed a hand down Methos' spine, seeking, and Methos sighed, his whole body curving into the touch. Duncan explored, hoping what he'd read on the subject would stand him in good stead. The shuddering response he coaxed from the lean body against his own told him he must be doing something right, so he continued, growing bolder, until Methos pulled away from him with a gasp. "Damn, wait, I need to find something..." he rolled away and Duncan watched him go over to one of the storage units and start pawing through it. He was puzzled until, with an exclamation of satisfaction, Methos pulled out a tube of skin moisturizer. Duncan didn't need an explanation any more. He knew exactly why that was needed. He grinned. "Good thing this shelter's well equipped. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Methos grinned back. "Not at all, you're a good Scottish boy, Duncan. You know shepherding can be a lonely business." It took a minute for the comment to sink in, then he hid a grin and bristled with mock indignation. "I'll no' have ye castin' aspersions on ma ancestors, Methos," he said, deliberately thickening his accent. "I seem to remember you Greeks were rather partial to fleece yourselves!" Methos smiled his endearingly annoying smile. "Nice try, Duncan, but what makes you think I'm Greek?" he asked slyly. Duncan lifted an eyebrow. "I can't imagine." Methos chuckled at that, acknowledging the hit, and Duncan moved to one side, making room, then held out a hand. Methos came and knelt beside him, hands on his thighs, waiting. Duncan suddenly felt a little unsure. "What now?" he asked, finally. Methos eyes lifted, his gaze full of firelight and desire. "Whatever you want." He was giving Duncan leave to explore, and he knew it. It was a role he knew well in another context. This one was as alien to him as the planet he now called home, yet as familiar as his own body. He took a deep breath, and put a hand on Methos' back, gently urging him down. Methos slowly stretched out full-length on his stomach, legs slightly apart, head pillowed on his arm. Duncan found himself staring at the way Methos' short-cropped hair exposed the milk-pale nape of his neck. Somehow, he looked so damned vulnerable. Leaning down, Duncan kissed the skin behind one ear, letting his teeth graze lightly. Methos turned his head slightly, facilitating his survey, and Duncan could see the curve of his mouth as he smiled. Lightly he trailed a hand down the long, muscular line of his back, fingers learning this new territory. Methos sighed and shivered as Duncan's mouth moved to where neck flowed into shoulder and his teeth nipped harder, coaxing a startled gasp from his quarry. He tasted of salt, a hint of rainwater, and the distinctive savor of Methos himself. His hand moved lower still to cup the slight rise of buttock. Under his mouth and hand he felt the tiny flexes and shifts of muscles under strict control, and it occurred to him that Methos was almost as nervous as he was. That surprised him. "I know why I'm nervous, but what's your excuse?" Methos ducked his head beneath his arm, and said something muffled. All Duncan caught was "afraid" and "enjoy". He fit himself against his partner's body and put his lips against Methos' ear. "I can't hear you," he whispered, then traced his tongue around the outer edge, and nibbled softly on the lobe. That earned a soft whimper. When Methos spoke again, it was without looking up. "I said I'm afraid that you won't enjoy this as much as I want you to." Duncan soothed a hand across his shoulders, cupping tense muscles, releasing. "How could I not enjoy being with you?" Methos looked up at that, shaking his head in disbelief. "Do you always know exactly the right thing to say?" Duncan grinned. "It's a remarkable talent, I know." "And you're modest, too!" Methos said, miming amazement. Duncan leaned around to kiss him again, and shifted his hips forward, letting the heat and hardness of his erection slide between Methos thighs, not trying to enter yet, just using his body in an intimate caress. Methos eyes' closed and he moaned into Duncan's mouth. Duncan repeated the motion, stunned by the raw need he felt, wanting to complete the connection, now. The urgency was almost irresistible, yet something stopped him, there was something he needed to do... if only he could remember what it was. Methos hand found his, a cool, slick substance puddled into his palm. For half a second he was tempted to yank his hand away and shake it off, then he realized what it was. Reluctant to move, yet knowing he had to, he shifted away and moved his hand down, parting the firm mounds, smoothing the slick stuff over tender flesh, fingers sliding inside just a little. He knew how to do this, he'd had women this way, but never another man. Methos' soft gasps and encouraging whimpers urged him on. His own sex was rock- hard and his whole body shaking with need. As he spread the stuff on himself, his own touch nearly set him off. He drew back to let himself calm down, and let his fingers return to stroking Methos; gently, repetitively, each time pressing deeper. He watched Methos' hands clench, heard the little sounds he made, watched him rocking his hips in cadence with his touch. He wondered what it felt like. Was it pleasure or pain? Both? He didn't want to hurt him, the thought was repugnant. He needed to know. "Methos, are you... am I doing this right? Is this good?" "God... you have no idea how good!" Methos rasped. "Duncan, if you don't finish this soon I'll... I'll... hell, I don't know what I'll do but it won't be pretty." "Believe me, I want to finish it, I just don't want to hurt you." Methos pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Duncan rather wildly. "Damn it, Duncan, I don't care if you hurt me!" There was no arguing with that. Knowing from experience how uncomfortable it was to lie on an erection and realizing that he'd been that way for quite awhile, he put a hand on Methos' hip urging him onto his side, then he curled close behind him, reaching around him to stroke the span of his torso. Resting one hand on Methos' shoulder, Duncan's other hand moved from the hard, muscular curve of chest, down the path formed by ribcage and abdomen into the amazingly soft hollow below the hipbone, learning the textures of him. His response was measured in the way his skin tightened, and his breathing changed. All the while Duncan rocked gently against, between, again not trying to enter, just accustoming himself and Methos to the feeling. He skimmed his fingers further down, teasing the rough curls where they began, straying downward, but not touching his final goal until Methos' hand finally covered his and urged it down to circle the rigid length of his sex. He caressed there for a while, and Methos moved as well, thrusting into his hand, pushing back against him with each teasing stroke. He let his hand move lower to cup the full weight, to feel the lift and tension which told him it was time, and he began to press his entry. Methos moaned assent, and pushed back against Duncan until the pressure was intense enough that Duncan was about to pull back, thinking it wasn't going to work; when Methos body finally yielded to his and he slid home with surprising ease. He gasped in startled pleasure, and Methos echoed the sound, shuddering. Duncan stilled with his lips against Methos' neck, waiting for the tension he sensed in his partner to ease. After a few moments, it did, and with that relaxation, Duncan was able to really feel instead of worrying. Hot. Silky. Tight, so damned tight. He moved minutely, closing his eyes against the incredible delight that even the slightest motion brought. He could feel Methos pulsebeat in his hand, against his lips, and all around him. Though he surrounded Methos, he had the oddest sensation that he was the one being held. They fit like interlocking puzzle pieces, as perfect a fit as any he'd ever felt. He began to rock, gently at first, then with growing abandon as Methos encouraged him. Nothing else mattered as Methos thrust into his hand, giving voice to his pleasure in rough-edged moans and velvet whispers. He felt his own pleasure rising, he was so close. The tightness was incredible, as was the edge of the forbidden. He'd grown up thinking this a sin. The years had given him more perspective than that yet somewhere deep in his subconscious that boy still existed, and that lent a kind of guilty =========================================================================